duped me time and again
inducing yours truly
to question my intuition
mountebanks such as one ace,
who calls her/himself Anita George
she/he claimed we knew one another
based on a virtual acquaintanceship
harking some months back
(despite absolute zero 
remembrance of things past)
ineluctably employ blandishments
to cultivate deceit and captcha
another nincompoop to bleed dry,
who second guessed
and distrusted his initial sixth sense.

Quite amazing
the breadth, length, scope
and gamut of ploys

as I sit

     in quiet of night

almost asleep

     but not quite

somehow it slips

     through shadows of time

and space unknown

     a whispered hey

somehow a voice

     full of love

with longing deep

     somehow I know

somewhere they wait

(a popular French feminine name
with Germanic roots, meaning
"hardworking, industrious,
or striving," derived from
the element 'amal' meaning
'work' or 'labor;' a French form
of Amelia gained international fame
from the 2001 film
Le Fabuleux Destin d'Amélie Poulain,
embodying both strength
and delicate charm).

Ah...,methinks days of yore,
when as kids playing
you got donned teacher role,
yet rooted in the present wherefore
nothing explains
with rhyme or reason,
why thee cursed

(in regard to the youngest

of our deux daughters,
who as an infant diagnosed

with development delay,
and blessed with needs based

supportive services so
academic accomplishment
warrants a commendable
accolade of praise,
no matter she matriculated
and graduated after
about a half dozen years
amassing the necessary credits)

a violi

a violist’s dream

I found to be an enjoyable read...,
where this bookworm vicariously
basked in trials and tribulations
(joys and sorrows)
among and between fictional
lives and glory
of two stalwart individuals.

The the two main characters
June Elizabeth Merriweather
and Conrad
(teased being called Connie
as a boy) Grayson Everleigh,
a protagonist and antagonist
(in the mind of
yours truly - me respectively),
whereat the former
narrates most of the story
titled Gatehouse At Bluster Hill

ANGRY SKIES

I’m sure that I detect a rumble of distant thunder
The air seems strangely heavy, with much in store
I suppose there will be the usual flashes of lighting
Yet it is just another storm, and hardly frightening
But when all goes silent and still, then it feels raw
With a growing sense of dread and left to wonder